Aunt Dimity's Death ad-1

by Nancy Atherton

  “You’re American?” I asked, coming down the stairs.

  “Yes, I am,” said Emma, looking up from the doorway. She was shorter than I, a bit plumper and some years older, wearing a bulky hand-knit sweater beneath a lightweight parka, and a gorgeously mucky pair of Wellingtons. Dishwater blond hair hung to her waist and she peered shyly at me through a pair of wire-rim glasses. “But my husband is the real thing. Harrow, Oxford—he even plays cricket when he has the chance.”

  “Which is none too often.” Derek Harris had eyes to kill for, the kind of deep, dark blue eyes that casting directors dream about and the rest of us don’t really believe exist. Emma would have been justified if she had married him for his eyes alone. He was tall and angular, with salt-and-pepper curls framing a weatherworn face. Like Emma, he wore a lightweight parka and appeared to be in his late forties. “I scarcely have enough time to run my business, let alone practice my bowling.” He eyed Bill speculatively. “I don’t suppose you…”

  “Sorry,” said Bill, “speed-reading is my game.” He gestured for the Harrises to come into the hall, closed the door, and made formal introductions. “By the way, Harris, my father wanted me to express his gratitude to you for keeping an eye on the cottage.”

  “Only too happy to help.” Derek turned his blue eyes toward me. “Hope we haven’t interrupted anything. Bill rang this morning to let us know you were coming out today. We spotted a car in the drive when we were coming back from town, so we thought we’d drop yours off.”

  “My what?” I asked.

  “Your car,” said Emma. “Bill asked us to lease one for you locally. It was no trouble,” she added. “Our house is just up the road. We can walk back.”

  “Do you have to get back right away?” I asked. “If not, you’re welcome to stop in for a cup of tea. It’s the least I can do to thank you.”

  “An Englishman never turns down a cup of tea,” said Derek with a smile. “Here, Em, let me help you with those.” Emma took his arm and stepped out of her Wellies while Bill hung their jackets in the hall closet.

  “I assume I have you to thank for stocking the pantry?” I said to Emma.

  “I didn’t want you to find the cupboards bare,” she replied. “I hope I haven’t forgotten anything.”

  “I don’t think you have to worry about that. I doubt that we’ll get through half of it before we leave. How about helping us tackle the crumpets tonight?”

  Derek and Bill were all in favor, so I set them to work lighting a fire in the living room while Emma and I repaired to the kitchen to put the kettle on. She helped me locate a sturdy brown teapot and four stoneware mugs—“No need to use Dimity’s best china with us,” she assured me. She filled a tea ball with loose tea from the tin tea caddy in the pantry, then brought out a white ceramic sugar bowl, a squat cream jug, and four dessert plates, arranging them with the rest of the tea things on a polished wooden tray with brass handles.

  “So this is a toasting fork.” I was fascinated. “I’ve read about them, but I’ve never used one before. I hope you know something about the fine art of crumpet toasting.”

  “With a ten-year-old daughter and a fifteen-year-old son at home I’ve become something of an expert on crumpets. Oh, and before I forget…” Emma reached into the pocket of her brown woolen skirt. “I borrowed this yesterday and I wanted to return it. Peter and Nell prefer these even to crumpets and I can’t say that I blame them.” With a cheerful smile, Emma handed me a recipe for oatmeal cookies.

  It was unmistakably my mother’s. An index card, browned with age and stained with use; her looping scrawl—I could almost smell the nutmeg.

  “Where did you get this?” I asked.

  “The usual place.” Emma went into the pantry and came back with a fat old dog-eared cookbook. “I used to borrow recipes from Dimity all the time. I’ve copied this one, though, so I won’t be needing the original again.”

  I paged through the cookbook, culling card after card, until I held a fan of my mother’s old standbys: tuna casserole, meat loaf, onion soup, cookies, cakes, even the champagne punch she had made to celebrate my college graduation. She had gotten that one from Mrs. Frankenburg downstairs, who was fond of fancy touches.

  “Should I have waited for your permission?” asked Emma in a small voice.

  I had forgotten she was in the room.

  “No, no,” I said. “It’s not that. It’s…” I tapped the fan into a pile and tried to collect myself. “These are my mother’s recipes. All of them. I mean, she wrote them herself. She must have exchanged recipes with Dimity Westwood. And she… she passed away last year.”

  Emma looked stricken. “I’m so sorry, Lori. I didn’t mean to spring it on you like that. I had no idea.”

  “Of course you didn’t. It’s all right, Emma, really. To tell you the truth, it’s a… a pleasant surprise. I knew that her letters were here, but I—”

  “Is that what those are? In the boxes in the study?”

  “Yes—hers and Dimity’s. I’m going to be reading through them while I’m here. Didn’t Bill tell you?”

  “Bill told us that he was bringing someone to the cottage, and that it had something to do with Dimity’s will. Period. Derek and I have been referring to you as ‘the Westwood Estate’ all day.” Emma took a bottle of milk from the refrigerator and with a steady hand began to pour off the cream into the squat jug.

  “I’m not the Westwood Estate,” I said firmly. “I wish I were. It’d be nice to take up permanent residence here, but I’m only staying for a month. I’m going to be… doing a research project. You know—exploring Dimity’s old haunts.”

  Some drops of cream spattered the wooden surface of the table, and Emma wiped them up with a spare napkin. “Are you? That sounds interesting.”

  “You knew her, didn’t you?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Emma. She put the milk bottle back in the fridge. “We knew Dimity. That’s the main reason we came over, in fact. We thought… That is, Derek and I thought you might want to know—” A shriek from the teakettle broke in on her words and as I was warming the pot, Bill put his head in the doorway.

  “We can’t get the fire going, Lori,” he said. “Derek thinks you should have a try.”

  * * *

  “You’ve checked the flue?” I knelt on the hearthrug while Emma put the tea tray on a low table. Bill stood behind me, and Derek sat on the couch, his long legs crossed, very much at ease.

  “It’s open,” said Bill. “The wood is dry, the tinder is in place, and Derek says that everything is in working order.”

  I struck a match. “I used to be pretty good at this back in my hosteling days….” It was like flipping a switch. The match touched tinder and the fire caught on contact. I tossed the spent match into the flames. “Maybe you hit some rot or something. Wood can be funny that way.”

  Emma glanced at Derek, then picked up a pair of toasting forks and knelt beside me. “Watch closely and I’ll show you how it’s done.”

  She was a good teacher and we soon had a respectable pile of beautifully browned crumpets to butter and munch. I hadn’t burned a single one, a first in the annals of my cooking experience.

  “My father told me that you helped with the renovation work here,” said Bill.

  “We did a lot more than help,” said Emma. “Derek was in charge of it. He’s an independent contractor.”

  “I specialize in dying arts,” Derek elaborated. “Thatched roofs, stone walls, stained glass—”

  “Everything that makes a place like this so special,” Emma finished proudly. “I think the cottage is my husband’s finest achievement.”

  “I can see why,” Bill agreed, dabbing butter from his beard with a napkin. “It’s magnificent. And you, Emma? What did you do?”

  A self-deprecating smile played on her lips. “Dimity let me work in the garden.”

  “‘Let you’?” Derek echoed indignantly. “Emma, she begged you to work on it.”

  “Oh, Derek…�
�

  “You’re a gardener?” Bill asked.

  “Well…” When Emma faltered, Derek smoothly stepped in.

  “My wife trained as a computer engineer at Caltech,” he explained. “She was working as a project manager for a Boston firm when we first met and she feels compelled to describe herself along those lines, although she’s nothing of the sort anymore. Oh, she still does the odd consulting job in London, but most of the time she’s rambling round the countryside or tending her gillyflowers. Emma is a gardener through and through. Cut her and she bleeds sphagnum moss.”

  “It’s true,” admitted Emma. “When I’m working in a garden, I’m at peace with the world.”

  “Then you’re in the right place,” I said, refilling Emma’s cup.

  “What do you mean?” Derek asked, and his blue eyes were suddenly alert.

  “‘This other Eden, demi-paradise,’” I quoted loftily.

  “Oh,” said Emma, patting Derek’s knee, “you mean England. Well, it’s true enough. The English do love to dibble and hoe, but Dimity’s garden is unusual, even for here.” A faraway look came into her eyes. “Working on it has been quite an experience.”

  “The cottage, as well,” Derek added. “Quite an experience.” Waving away my offer of more tea, he returned his cup to the tray, contemplated the fire, then sat back, looking vaguely uncomfortable. “Actually,” he went on, “we didn’t come over tonight solely to deliver the car.”

  “Although we wanted to do that, certainly,” said Emma.

  “Yes, of course,” said Derek. “But we were also wondering if…” He cleared his throat.

  “…if you had noticed anything,” Emma put in. “Since you arrived, that is.”

  “Like what?” I asked.

  “Oh… anything unusual,” Derek said casually.

  I thought for a second. “The lock’s not working on the front door. I mean, it works sometimes, and sometimes it jams.”

  “Have you had any trouble with it, Lori?” asked Derek.

  “No, but—”

  “Anything else out of the ordinary?”

  I shrugged. “All of the lights were on when we got here, but I assumed that you—”

  “We didn’t,” said Emma. “You see… well… I’m not quite sure how to say this. It’s not something I’ve had much experience with.”

  “There was the lady chapel in Cornwall,” Derek pointed out.

  “Yes, but that didn’t involve someone we knew, Derek. This is completely different.” Emma turned back to me. “Besides, we didn’t know anything about you and we were afraid you might be… disturbed by it.”

  “Disturbed by what?” I asked warily.

  “We simply wanted to tell you not to worry if you notice any peculiar things happening in the cottage,” said Emma.

  “Such as the front door lock,” said Derek. “We’ve never had trouble with it before, but as you said, it will only open for you now. It stands to reason, of course. She had the whole place done up for you. She must feel protective.”

  “I’m sure that’s why the lights were on, too. And the lilacs blossoming so early…” Emma gestured at the bowl of fragrant flowers on the piano. “She was always very fond of lilacs. There’s the fire as well, but you saw what happened with that.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said, as gently as I could. I put my cup on the tray and looked dubiously from Emma’s face to Derek’s. “Let me see if I’ve got this straight. By ‘she’ you mean Dimity?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Emma. “We’re not sure why, but we’re certain it’s Dimity.”

  “You’re telling me that the cottage is haunted?”

  “I’m afraid so,” replied Derek, and Emma nodded her agreement.

  “Not that there’s anything to be afraid of,” Emma added.

  “Bill, did you hear that?” But there was no reaction from Bill. Instead, a strange stillness had fallen over him, the stillness of a hunter waiting for his prey to step into the trap. I felt a pang of disappointment so intense that I nearly groaned aloud.

  This was it, the monumental prank I’d been waiting for ever since we’d touched down at Heathrow. And I had to admire how carefully he had set it up. He’d drawn me out during the flight and behaved like a perfect gentleman in London, all in order to win my trust, to lull me into complacency, so that when the time came, I would… what? Scream and run out of the cottage? Fall fainting into his arms? What kind of a fool did he take me for? I had no doubt that Emma and Derek were in on the game, but I couldn’t blame them. I knew how charming Bill could be.

  “Thank you,” I said, with a touch of frost in my voice. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “As I said, it’s nothing to worry about,” Emma repeated earnestly. “It shook me a bit at first, but you’d be amazed at how quickly you get used to it.” She looked uncertainly at Derek.

  “Yes. Well.” Derek drummed his fingers on the arm of the couch, then stood up. “Thank you very much for your hospitality. We’d best be going, Em. Vicar’s roof tomorrow.”

  “First thing in the morning,” said Emma. “They’re forecasting heavy rain for the rest of the day.”

  We stayed with the safe subject of the weather until Derek and Emma walked out into the cold. I closed the door and leaned my head against it, willing Bill to admit that the whole thing had been his idea of a joke. If he had, I think I could have shrugged it off.

  “Strange story,” he said.

  I straightened slowly.

  “I can’t imagine why they’d make it up, though,” he added.

  “Can’t you?” I asked, still with my back to him.

  “No. I’ll have to speak to Father about it. He’s not going to like—” He broke off as I swung around to face him. “Lori? You don’t think I—”

  “You don’t want to hear what I think,” I said. I darted past him and fled up the stairs to the master bedroom, where I slammed the door and locked it. I was not going to give Bill the satisfaction of seeing me cry.

  13

  Some people are lucky enough to look like Bambi when they cry. I look like Rudolph. I woke up the next morning with a headache and a shiny nose, and promptly blamed Bill for both.

  I took a long, hot shower, then pulled on some jeans and a Fair Isle sweater I’d bought in London. When I slid open the door to the deck, a blast of wind nearly knocked me back inside. One glance at the overcast sky told me that this would not be my day for hill climbing, and as my breath condensed in the cold air, I wondered how often it snowed in the south of England in late April.

  The back garden almost made up for the gloomy sky. It was spilling over with bright blossoms and the cold didn’t seem to affect them at all—a pair of redbuds were just coming into leaf in the meadow beyond the stone wall. I recalled what Emma had said about the lilacs, but dismissed it when the first windblown splashes of rain sent me back inside to unpack.

  I put my books on the shelves, set Reginald’s shoebox in the bottom of the wardrobe, and stowed the rest of my gear in the bureau. I only had enough for three of the large drawers, so I decided to put the emptied canvas bags in the fourth one, and that’s how I found the box. It had been shoved way back in the corner of the bottom drawer, and I would have missed it if it hadn’t shifted forward when I jerked the drawer open.

  I carried it to the windows, where a sickly gray light was beginning to leak into the room. Covered with smooth, dark blue leather and die-stamped with a curlicued W, the box fit easily in the palm of my hand, and when I saw a tiny keyhole on one edge, my heart fell. I didn’t want to damage it, but I wanted very much to find out what was inside. If it held a picture of Dimity, it would be the first I’d ever seen.

  “Damn,” I said; then, “Oh, what the hell.” I tried the lid and it opened without hesitation. The box held a locket, a gold locket in the shape of a heart, with flowers incised on the front. It hung from a fine gold chain. I lifted it gently from the box, slipped a thumbnail into the catch, and opened it.

  It was
empty. There were places for two small pictures, one in each heart-shaped half, but they held nothing. I closed the locket and regarded it thoughtfully. According to my mother, Dimity had been looking at albums of photographs when the neighbors had found her alone in the cottage, in a state of nervous collapse. Where were those albums now? What if the photograph that had been given to my mother had come from one of those albums, and what if the page had been labeled, and what if… I hung the chain around my neck to remind myself to search for Dimity’s albums, then went to listen at the hall door.

  The wind rattled the windows and the rain pounded the roof, but there was no other sound. I hadn’t heard a peep out of Bill since the night before. With any luck, he’d have the good sense to move in with the Harrises for the rest of the month.

  * * *

  The lights had been turned off throughout the cottage, and a fire burned cheerfully in the fireplace in the study, proof, I thought, that Bill had given up on the ghost hoax. If he hadn’t, he would have called upon my alleged magical powers to start the fire for him. I wondered if he had stayed up all night in the study, reading the Aunt Dimity stories and—I hoped—feeling ashamed of himself.

  My experience with the crumpets, and the absence of witnesses, gave me the confidence to try an omelette for breakfast. To my great delight, and even greater amazement, the result was light and fluffy and oozing with melted cheese. I ate in the solarium, watching the rain cascade down the glass panes and hoping that the poor vicar’s repairs had been finished in time. When the telephone rang, I went to the study to answer it.

  “I do hope I’ve gotten the time change right.” The line crackled with static from the storm, but Willis, Sr.’s thoughtfulness came through loud and clear. “I haven’t disturbed your sleep, have I, Miss Shepherd?”

  “No,” I replied, “and it wouldn’t matter if you had. It’s wonderful to hear your voice.”

  “Thank you, Miss Shepherd. It is pleasant to speak with you as well. I take it that you have arrived in good order?”